Just Shut The Hell Up
by storybycorey
Summary: She hums in response, realizing with sudden clarity this is it. IT. This is the rest of her life right here, smelling his sweat in a rented Ford Taurus, listening to him talk instead of shutting him up. Perpetually tired, perpetually horny. Eating Doritos and Twinkies then going to bed after, coming frantically against motel sheets while trying her hardest not to think.


It's dark, and he drones on and on, pavement vibrations beneath their feet. Mile markers flash for a second, maybe two—305, 306, 307—she's dizzy watching them, dizzy listening. She's listened hundreds of miles worth in seven years, thousands, maybe millions. She's tired. Tired and horny, but then what else is new?

"And when you really take a good look at the statistics behind it blah blah blahbitty-blah…" She closes her eyes.

There'd been a time she fantasized about how it would happen. Played the scenarios in her head, sunk her fingers in until they were slick and wet and an almost adequate replacement. She has an excellent imagination, was always the best at coming up with stories as a child—she and Melissa as undercover spies, infiltrating the boys' secret basecamp, a dark and dreary place that was really just Bill and Charlie's old wooden bunkbed.

Fantasies were enough for a long time.

They've done it on the desk that's not hers, they've done it in the elevator with the 'stop' button pushed, they've even done it with her pinned against the door in Skinner's office, rough and frenzied, their boss shouting and pounding from the other side. Her favorite, though, is Mulder's couch—soft, slow, slippery against the leather. They've done it that way more times than she can count.

Only of course they really haven't. All they've done is drive.

Sometimes it seems they've already missed their chance. They've swooped their way up the Bell curve and are quickly swooping back down, optimum time span for "it" to have occurred already gone. They're old and they're comfortable, and he could drone on for another million miles at least.

He grins across the console at her. "Discovery channel and vending machine dinner when we get to the hotel? I've got a pair of sweats with my name on them." She used to wear pretty lingerie beneath her suits. She doesn't even do that anymore.

She hums in response, realizing with sudden clarity this is it. IT. This is the rest of her life right here, smelling his sweat in a rented Ford Taurus, listening to him talk instead of shutting him up. Perpetually tired, perpetually horny. Eating Doritos and Twinkies then going to bed after, coming frantically against motel sheets while trying her hardest not to think.

It stuns her, steals her breath away. He's over there tapping his fingers to the radio and she's over here in the midst of a devastating epiphany. Over there. Over here. It's never going to be different.

He turns the wheel. _-otel! -otel! -otel!_ flashes through the windshield. Somehow a broken neon sign seems entirely apropos in this moment. He's out and on his way to his room before she even lifts the door handle. There used to be fantasies about this, too, desperate and hungry, barely making it into the hotel room after a case. He looks at her strangely when she finally moves, in a daze, towards her door.

"Ten minutes—my room? Clothing optional…" He waggles his brows, and it would have been almost funny a year ago, maybe even a week ago. She nods.

Inside her room, there's the click of him unlocking his half of the adjoining door. She sits on the bed and wrenches off her blazer, peels off her hose. She's wet for him. She's fucking always wet for him.

She doesn't think. She stopped thinking back there in the car. Maybe even before. The flashing _–_ _otel!_ sign will give her a headache soon if she doesn't close her curtains.

It's not fair. She's not ready for this to be IT.

He looks up startled when she opens the door. They always knock. They always knock and always banter and always take things right to the very edge but then go to bed alone.

He's sitting on the small couch taking off his shoes, shirt loosened and tie on the floor. She advances, walks straight as the crow flies towards him, bare feet stepping on yesterday's dirty laundry and this morning's paper. Buttons slip like rabbits through their holes, until her blouse is left gaping, until she's descending, descending, one knee and another on either side of his thighs.

"Scully!" he chokes, scrabbling beneath her. She doesn't care.

"Shut up," she tells him. Just shut the hell up. His jaw is lush with five-o-clock shadow and she grasps it in her hands, brings her mouth down to his with an urgency that hits like a hurricane wave. It's glorious, a long-awaited breath after minutes beneath the water. Her body flexes up then sinks back down, her ass hitting his thighs just as he heaves up to meet her.

"Wh—?" he grunts, but she crushes herself against him, makes him moan right into her mouth until he's finally kissing her back. No words, she can't. She can only feel—his mouth, his hard and needy body. He finally relents, gripping her shoulders and dragging her even closer.

This wasn't one of her fantasies—but it should have been.

His tongue, it's a wild animal, ferocious and frantic, and his fingers tangle in her hair like a vine. She doesn't know how he can be everywhere all at once, but he is. He's been everywhere all at once for seven years, and this is the first time she really appreciates it.

Her breasts ache, so she presses them to his chest, rubs against him for relief. She doesn't regret that her bra's just plain old beige when he unclasps it in order to touch her. She regrets it even less when he lifts her by the shoulder blades and arches her back so his mouth will reach. His hair is soft and spiky, and their pelvises grind against one another as if they've been doing this for years.

She's imagined them loud and dirty, she's imagined them cerebral and chatty, she's even imagined them quiet and sweet, but never in all her imaginings did she capture _this_. Their breaths fill the entire room—loud and sharp and panting. They echo, they ricochet off the walls and back. No talk (when have they ever not talked a thing to death?), just breaths and the barest desperate whimper, the smallest urgent grunt. She thinks she could come from the sounds alone.

More though, more. With frantic fingers, she reaches between them, fumbles with his belt and zipper. He thrusts against her, but then shoves away her hands to do it himself. Good, yes, that's good. She scrambles from his lap to pull her underwear off beneath her skirt, allows her shirt and bra to join them on the floor. By the time she's done, he's there, hard and waiting, slacks and boxers pushed down to his knees.

She stands there for a minute, swaying, breathing. She's in complete disarray and she likes it. "C'mere," he growls, then grabs for her hand and hauls her back down. She shoves up her skirt on the way and then... yes, there. Hot wet flesh meets hot wet flesh. He groans as she presses against him. He takes her by the hipbones, slides her forward and back, and they watch in awe as his dark pink cock appears then disappears beneath her. It's so damn sexy, she can barely breathe.

The two of them exist solely for each other. It's been that way for a while. This universe they've built ebbs and it flows, but now… now it narrows, it contracts until it's focused only on a single point between them. She lifts herself up, and with his fingers there to guide her, slides herself down. Slowly, deliciously, until she's taken him all in. Slack-jawed and gasping, she lays her forehead against his until she can breathe.

And then she begins to move. Rocking—slowly, gently, and then a bit faster. His fingers dance along her spine. And then there's her clit, grinding against his pubic bone. She'd forgotten that sensation, but it's… oh, it's exquisite. He lifts his hands to hover before her chest, and her nipples brush against his palms with each soft roll of her body. She sucks the air through her teeth. Then soon she's bouncing, rising and falling, increasing her pace until she's gripping the back of the couch and riding him for all he's worth.

This is no elegant coupling. This is chaotic and frenzied and necessary. Cupping the base of her skull, he drags her desperately back down to his mouth. Their lips and teeth collide without any pretense of precision. The breathing, the gasping, the delicious wet slapping, it's almost too much—before long, she finds herself wavering deliriously on the edge.

Another thrust of his hips and she falls, twitching and shuddering against him, grasping his neck as her breaths fall hot and moist at his ear. He whines—such a magnificent sound— and before she's even recovered, his hands are on her hips and he's pounding into her as if there's no tomorrow.

Is there? Is there a tomorrow after this?

He comes with a shout then collapses against the couch. His scent in her nose reminds her of an hour ago, back in the car. She nuzzles against his neck for more. A moment passes, two. Then lazily, he sweeps a hand across her cheek. "Thank you," he says.

She looks away, "Mulder…," moves to climb from his lap.

"Stop," he tells her, sitting up and pulling her back close. "Christ, Scully, the look in your eyes as you crossed that room… I've always known you were the brave one." He trails a finger along her clavicle and she shivers.

She thinks about tomorrow, sitting next to him in that car, listening to him talk and talk and talk, shiny green mile markers whizzing by. 308, 309, 310. The thought makes her dizzy. But in the very best way. Yes. She can do this.

Turning to face him, she smoothes the hair from his forehead. "I believe I was promised a vending machine dinner," she says with a grin, but before he can answer, she pulls him back in for a kiss, not caring one damn bit about the dinner, not caring one damn bit about anything else except this—a universe that came into being seven long years ago, with an outstretched hand and a smile.

This. This was one of her fantasies—necking with him on the couch. Maybe it was a different couch, a bit cleaner, certainly a bit bigger, and she could do without the flashing _–_ _otel!_ sign right outside its window.…

But for once in her life, she's not going to go getting picky.


End file.
